


All Flame and Jewel Color

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4793057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England: 1516, Reign of King Henry VIII.</p><p>Samuel Winchester has just been called back to the Court of his old friend for a visit, and he's to find that although some things change, others remain the same. It is here that he is formally introduced to Dean Smith, who is an only child, a young Lord, and a bit more than Sam might be able to withstand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from my one of my favorite lines in Gone With The Wind.  
> (Apologies for any glaring historical inaccuracies. I have studied this era of British history in depth, however, so I'm hoping that it serves me well.)  
> (Tags at the end).

The first time he lays eyes upon Dean, the boy is ensconced in the palanquin of House Smith, livery of cloth of gold and blue.

The curtains are tightly closed against the chill of the early morning, but a stiff breeze blows the brocaded fabric awry, and it is then that he catches a glimpse of wheat-colored hair. The boy's eyes are roaming the city ravenously, from what little he can see, and their eyes connect, fraction of a second.

The drapes flap shut once more, and Sam subsequently climbs into his own arrangements, tall stature bowed double as he steps aboard. His own drapery is deep violet and white. The colors are  entwined with cloth of gold, and adorned with the crest of his house.

Lord Samuel Winchester is of twenty and six years, and he’s currently due to inherit the titles of his ailing father. He’s come to court, at the behest of his childhood friend, Henry, and he is rapidly regretting every second spent in London.

The streets are amuck with refuse, and though he understands that it is disallowed near the palace, he cannot think too kindly on a place so cramped and ill-kept.

He can hear the shouts of the market square, stench of wild onions and putrid meats, the screams of common women for their children. He is exceedingly glad for the partition his curtains provide.

The excess of childish wails frightens him the most, and he cannot rightly ascertain why it is that children are sought after, excluding the continuation of lineage.

Court does not appeal to him, never has, the only parts of it he has fancied have belonged to horseback, and the practice of swordsmanship at the hands of his peers.

So, Sam remains unsurprised to have seen the retinue of palanquins littering the streets. He’s already been journeyed here by seven of his strongest men at arms, sent along with him by his father, who bade him good health and safe travels.

Henry shall be in the Presence Chamber, and Sam is frustrated to realize that he’s quite a bit out of sorts, probably due to the fact that he has not seen his friend since his coronation, seven years prior. Henry was a bit taller than him then, standing at around 6’2, and Sam’s pleased to note that he’s surpassed him, in this endeavor.

When Sam alights, the rough voyage finally coming to a standstill, it is everything that he remembers, and none of what was.

The walls of Westminster are as lavishly decorated as Sam remembers from his childhood, covered in tapestries of battle, fair-skinned women and rugs from the far east. The walls are draped in the colors of a rich sunset, and his fingers dance against the fabric in memory.

Sam crosses himself as he passes the marble sculpture of the Virgin, mutters a hasty rosary under his breath.

If he remembers correctly from Henry’s oft-told stories, Cathy was always rather particular about the Virgin, perfect little saint, Henry always said fondly.

The Chamber is a cacophony of sound, and everyone is underfoot. There is a mix mash of colors splashed throughout the room, and Sam can see the rolls of parchment scattered about Henry's wide desk, covered in loops and swirls of ink.

Sam’s got on his stiffest, nicest hose, doublet of sea blue, and he’s feeling rather uncomfortable. His shirt is chemise, he’s got them aplenty back home, in Surrey, but he’s never felt the need of wearing them.

His neckline is low, possibly the only comfortable aspect of his attire, and the ruffle at the dip tickles the hollow of his throat. His jerkin is colored wine-red, dark stain against the broad shoulders of his body, and it’s the most supple leather he’s yet had the pleasure of feeling.

His codpiece is the most bejeweled, ostentatious piece of artistry he’s ever worn, and given the option as to whether or not he’d like to hide the thing underneath the skirts of his jerkin, he had promptly complied.

He’s, at best, awkward, at worst, shameful, and he’d written a few weeks past to tell Henry he’d accept his invitation to the city, but he knows Henry. He is aware of his proclivity for reading, and his impatience with words in equal measure, and he thinks he ought to have sent four such missives.

He provides his name to the announcer and a hush falls about the bustling crowd when the man speaks, low whine from his parched throat.

“Presenting The Marquess of Winchester.” There are nods and bows of deference to his person, mostly by those of lesser ranking than him, of which there are quite a few, as his own father holds the title higher than his own.

Henry’s head is thrown back in a laugh, and Sam would remember that grin anywhere, the way the column of his neck stretches, when he’s very animated for no specific reason.

The laugh cuts off, mid chuckle, and Sam huffs underneath his breath as he approaches the throne, slow and steady, hands outstretched and doublet wide, just as he’s been taught, to ensure the King that he’s got no weapons on his person.

He sinks down to one knee, and kisses the King’s ring. He glances up, corner of his mouth twitching in mirth, and Sam is unsurprised when Henry shoves his hand aside to jerk him unceremoniously to his feet.

“Sammy you great cad, how is that you have not been around to see us, not in all this time?” Sam’s taken aback at Henry’s casual use of the royal we, but his old friend rolls his eyes, runs a large hand through auburn hair.

“I apologize heartily, your Majesty. You remember how my father took ill, directly after your coronation.” He pauses, smiling cheekily. “If I recall, twas a splendid affair.” Henry snorts, inelegant to the last, and grabs him by the forearm.

“We shall be excused.” Henry’s tone brooks no question, and Sam’s shocked at the way the tide has turned, the deference afforded to Henry that had remained absent when Arthur was alive.

They’re in Henry’s private apartments now, having hurried down halls strewn with brocaded paintings, shimmering gold in the low light of the morn.

The men of his Privy Chamber trickle in and out, but Henry mostly ignores them, focuses his sparkling eyes on Sam and his face heats under the scrutiny.

“Harry, what has possessed you to bring me from the hills of Surrey, all the way into the fetid air of Westminster? You know I have never been over-fond of the city.” Sam crosses his arms against his chest and raises his brow.

Henry slaps his knee in mirth, even-white grin.

“There has been word that your father is nearing the end of his life.” Henry crosses himself dutifully, and leans forward.

“You left to aid him in his illness, and I find that commendable, but you are naught but twenty and six, Sam. Your mother, may the Virgin bless and keep her, would not like to see you waste your life thus.” Henry’s smiling, but his words are hard, and Sam knows he’s never been particularly gracious regarding Sam’s father.

Lord John Winchester, Duke of Surrey, is dying of consumption, and to those who know him personally, a first-rate bastard.

Sam is his only son, the second of his issue having died before the advent of his fourth date, and Sam was but eight at the time. Nary a Winchester is allowed to speak of Charles, and it is the one request set forth by Sam’s mother, Lady Mary, that has been upheld.

Sam is set to inherit all of his father’s lands, and titles, and while the idea fills him with no small amount of trepidation, there is also an excitement he cannot contain.

Being with Harry is something of a drug, and the boy had, more than not, gotten them in scrapes that they would have been otherwise helpless to pull themselves out of, were they not of the nobility.

Harry flexes his legs, strong calves encased in soft hose.

“There’s to be a feast in the Welcoming Chamber, in your honor, on the morrow. I would suggest that you liven up.” Harry waggles his brows in exaggeration, and Sam guffaws.

“And my good father not even yet in the ground. You would have me so uncouth as to revel in his demise?” Harry grins, shrugs a shoulder.

“You remember our Father,” Henry begins, shortly, seamlessly slipping back into the royal we. “When Arthur passed, he was nothing short of confusion, and us, not remotely prepared for the throne.” Henry shrugs.

“You remember how he oft was, Sam. I think it prudent that you live while you are yet able. And live it with me.” Henry grabs at Sam’s arm, pulls it close to him. “You must become a Gentleman of the Chamber. I will not take no as a suitable answer.”

Sam huffs out his air and gently dislodges his arm.

“Wherefore is there a better place for a Duke of England but by the side of his King?”

-

Harry is flushed with the light of his ale, colored and hearty, and it’s a sore sight for eyes that have not been granted this since they were but nine and ten, running about Whitehall in search of glory.

Sam recalls shared conquests, ladies in waiting with soft, pale flesh, wet and dripping against the heavy fabric of their skirts.

Sam can still hear their squeals as he and Harry take turns with their maidenhood, depriving them in equal measures of joy and awe. Harry claps a hand against his shoulder and Sam looks beyond his King to meet the displeased eyes of Catherine, short and stiff-necked against the back of her bedecked throne.

Her square neckline holds none of the youthful bosom he had become acquainted with seeing, and her face is pale and drawn, too tight against the pallor of her skin. Her fingers are thin and interlaced with the jewels of her rosary, and Sam wonders how she can think to pray at such a time as this.

Harry drags his attention back, presses another mug into his empty hands.

“Empty it then, Sammy.” The liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup of gold, and Sam licks it up absently, tips the contents back into his throat.

It occurs not a moment too soon, because that is when he catches his second sighting of the boy of  House Smith. The man is ten years his junior, and his father had him late in life, after the death of his first wife of the childbed fever, and the subsequent death of his newborn babe.

His father is Lord Robert Smith, the Marquess of Dorchester, and Sam is not overly familiar with him, but he’s aware that the man is rather kindly to his only child, and the boy had grown up without a mother, as his too was dead of the childbed fever naught but a year after his birth.

The boy was but a babe when Sam and Harry roamed the halls of court, engaging in every level of debauchery known to man, and Sam chokes on the remainder of his ale when he catches sight of the slim face.

“Harry,” he hisses, voice low.

“Tell me mine eyes are mistaken, for that cannot be the boy Smith.” Henry’s eyes twinkle and he sits forward, his legs jouncing in time with the Galliard currently playing.

“He’s Earl of Huntingdon, and it appears to us that he is in no great hurry to acquire his father’s titles. Lord Smith appears to be in good health.” Henry shifts in his brocaded seat, four steps higher than that of the rest of the party and wrestles with his codpiece.

Sam snorts.

“Harry, by the Saints, contain yourself.” He winks lewdly. “Bessie is in attendance tonight.” He pauses, for dramatic effect, and grins.

“Have you yet to bed her or do you insist on propriety for Cathy?” Henry chortles, throws his head back and laughs, and his men laugh alongside, just as heartily, for reasons they know not.

“She remains my Queen, Sam.” His eyes wrinkle with inebriated thought.

“She has not been suitable for me to bed in months, nigh a year, mayhap.” Sam whistles. “And are you satisfied, my King?” Henry grunts and then dissolves into a sigh. “It is not always meant for us to have the things we want, Sam. Such is the life of a King.”

Sam sits back, allows his legs to fall apart and takes stock of the young ladies loitering in the corner near them, six and ten, cheeks pinked with reluctant arousal.

Sam is comely, he’s quite aware of that, and he and Henry have received more than their fair share of looks due to their combined stature and prowess. He nudges his codpiece in discomfort and watches as Henry rises unsteadily to his feet.

“I am to dance with Catherine, the first belongs to her,” he explains, unnecessarily, as if Sam has somehow forgotten the rules of court.

He observes her as she rises, and she is more squat than he remembers, sitting barely 5’2, dress dragging behind her with every step. Her face is softer, when she glances up at Henry, and Sam can still see the love-light when she looks at him, in awe of his hard muscles and strong back.

It is the Pavane they are to dance, and Sam gazes upon it in moderate amusement, has always appreciated how skilled Henry is at dancing in general.

So, he can be forgiven when he looks away from the festivities and the Earl of Huntingdon has blocked his vision, and he sits up in duress.

The boy is not more than a few fresh years, clean countenance of youth, and his eyes are the green of emeralds, deep-set into his comely face. He’s covered in a dusting of freckles, and the boy is too fair-skinned to be allowed so much in the sun.

His doublet is as green as his eyes, and the linen shirt beneath lies open at the neck. His jerkin is black, uncommon coloring, but it lies loose over his codpiece and he can see how slim the boy’s legs are in his cream-colored hose.

“My Lord Marquess,” he hums, just as he has been taught. He blinks owlishly, down into Sam’s face, and Sam rises, realizes he has consumed too little of meat and far too much of drink to be steady on his feet.

“My father requests that I offer you our condolences for the health of your father, and that we may visit your apartments  on the morrow.” The boy cocks his head to the side and blinks again, long lashes brushing against his lightly reddened cheeks.

“He would like to arrange a visit with your father, in his time of poor health.” Smith shrugs in apology.

“His leg is not what it once was, or he would have come to speak with you himself. Think it not a slight, My Lord.” Sam glances once in the direction of the elder Smith, but does not waste the time needed to meet his eyes.

Instead of answering, Sam nods his head toward the outer hall, dumbly, his words caught in his throat. The boy has not done anything untoward, but Sam cannot stop looking at the soft curvature of his lips, the wet shine when he swipes his tongue once, twice, three times as he follows Sam’s stride.

Sam cuts through the ladies, low hanging necklines and scalloped ruffs, heavy chemise lining and off-colored yellows. He feels four sets of hands against his spine and shoulders and he straightens up with pride, because Samuel Winchester may be many things, but homely he is not.

Sam waits until the boy is fully in the hall, light-eyes upturned, to speak.

Sam is anything but a rake, and though he has engaged in questionable behavior throughout the years, especially with Harry at the helm of their ship, he has essentially been raised to be respectful, especially by that of his Lady Mother.

“How old are you?” The boy’s lashes flutter again and the words come out, honey-sweet.

“Six and ten, my Lord.” He glances up. “Am I not--” he pauses, gentle stumble over the words, “do you not find me pleasing, Lord Winchester?”

Sam pushes his body forward instinctively, and then pulls away, does not want to test the bounds of propriety, not with this one.

“I find you many things, Lord Smith, but displeasing be not one of them.” He reaches his fingers up, allows his thumb to catch on the soft pout of the boy’s lower lip. Sam groans, cannot understand why this boy remains so fragile, bird before first flight.

Dean huffs out his air and steps closer, tilts his head further up.

“I am naught but six and ten, My Lord, not yet formally betrothed by my father.” His breath fans hotly against Sam’s thumb, and then the small pink muscle snakes out, tiny taste, and Sam shoves the boy back against the tapestried wall with his hips.

He covers the swollen mouth with his own and plunders, gnawing at Dean’s lips until he can taste salt and blood, and pulls back to watch his own damage.

Dean is breathing heavily, hair slightly mussed, and the boy probably has one last growth spurt left, because he looks up several inches into Sam’s eyes and licks at his bottom lip with a soft moan of pleasure.

“Please, Lord Winchester, I must return to my father’s side. He worries, when he is without me.” Dean arches his back against the wall, his mouth dropping open gently in search of air.

Sam boxes him in again, quite unwilling to relinquish his pretty prize. “You shall return to me, and not speak to another on your journey?” Sam is aware his behavior is less than becoming, and it is unseemly for a man of his station to be cavorting with another male, especially within the Palace grounds, but Harry has always been lax, and it is not as if it is unheard of.

Dean smiles, feather-thin and snakes his way from under the cage of Sam’s body.

“If it please you, My Lord.” He whispers, runs slim fingers across his neck to adjust his linen, and turns swiftly back in the direction of court.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently there's a bit of stress over the fact that this is bottom!Dean, which I'm confused about, but I'll provide this tag at the bottom so that no one is unduly surprised, and I don't unknowingly set off a landmine in the fandom.


	2. Chapter 2

Upon awakening, Dean becomes aware that his father will not be doing much in the way of traveling today.

He injured himself, some thirty years hence, at the Battle of Bosworth Field. Whenever his leg plagues him, much as it is doing now, he will unlace the bindings of his linen and lean back, feeling the need to regale Dean with stories of his past prowess.

His leg is heavily scarred, having suffered at the hands of the Yorkist insurgents, and Dean has heard nary a word of kindness or mercy towards the House of York in all his life.

Thus, Dean humors him to the best of his ability, because his father wed rather young, at the bidding of the King’s father, and lost her almost immediately afterwards. He does not hear much about her, as she was naught more than a political arrangement, but his father has always been sentimental when he’s in pain.

He discusses Dean’s mother that much less, and what Dean has been afforded has been gleaned from the highborn ladies who raised him, took him into their homes and taught him all manner of things.

The Lady Mills, Marchioness of Bath, had raised him for the majority of his life, until she took ill and needed to retire to the country, in Surrey.

More oft than not, Dean misses her calming presence, the twinkle in her dark brown eyes when Dean is up to no good and attempting to hide it.

He wishes dearly that she were here now, because he’s quite alone, and although his father is healthy, wounded leg notwithstanding, Dean remains constantly afeared.

His father is gesticulating wildly, pale wrists hanging from beneath the cuffs of his jerkin, and Dean shakes his head fondly, knows that his father is winding up to the good parts, where the old King procures the Crown from a bush, or some other sort, the details run together these days.

Dean rises gracefully, another art he has had to procure on his own, and smiles.

“My father, t’would it please you were I to attend to the Marquess of Winchester alone this morn?” Dean remembers the way the man had claimed his lips last night, strong body pinning him unforgivingly into the wall.

He smirks at the memory even as a coil of warmth unfurls deep in his nether regions.

Robert pauses, hands flopping down to his sides. Dean winces, for he knows how cooped up his father becomes when he is having a spell.

“I suppose it has become necessary, boy. You would be good to offer my condolences for my absence.” Robert hitches himself up further on the canopied bed, shoves impatiently at the heavy fabric encircling the frame.

It’s in deep blue, the livery of their apartments at court, and Dean fingers them idly as he considers what he might wear to be most presentable to the Lord Winchester.

“I will pass along your missive, father. Would you like me to send in your gentlemen upon my leaving?” Dean cocks his head to the side and braces himself. His father’s mood sours rapidly when he considers the fragility of his position, and he has never liked to be coddled.

He loathes it most when Dean attempts it, and so, at six and ten, he has learned to be seen when his father is ailing, and presents all aid as an offhanded suggestion.

His father rolls his neck and scratches at the stubble collecting on his chin.

“If you are to be back later on in the day, I see no harm in having them close at hand.” Dean lets out a whoop of success internally, and inclines his head respectfully. “I will dress and take my leave of you, then.”

Robert opens his arms languidly, his early distaste and frustration melting when he offers himself up for an embrace. Dean steps in the open arms willingly, aware that his is the only flesh and blood his father has left to him.

He strides briskly back to his own apartments, scratches idly at the hose about his legs.

He knows greens are kind to his fair complexion, and the amount of courtiers who have reminded him that it compliments his eyes remain too numerous to count.

He picks his doublet based on these qualifications and opts on a cream-colored linen, so as to not be too ostentatious. He is not over fond of colors, but he picks a jerkin made of cloth of gold to complete his ensemble.

There is an oval shaped, brocaded mirror settled by the far wall, nearest the door, and Dean admires himself critically, ponders as to whether or not he is overdone.

His hair is shorter than it’s ever been, and sticks up in soft tufts about his head. Dean combs through them with his fingers until he feels satisfied, and dabs a bit of rose-water amongst his neck for emphasis.

He bids good day to his father once more, who is engrossed in discussion with a Lord that Dean has not yet paused to see.

He can breathe a bit more once he has exited his apartments, and he knows the Palace like the back of his hand, years of roaming to and fro when he was wild and young, without a mother to corral him.

Good fortune provided him with his mother’s exceedingly fair looks, and Dean became rather accustomed to getting away with everything short of murder, and that was only because he was too small to successfully attempt the deed.

Dean rounds the last corner, for the Marquess’ apartments are kept close to the King, as the Lord Winchester and His Majesty were companions from babes onward, and everyone has been regaled with the travesties of their youth.

He straightens his spine with a smile, gnaws carefully on his lower lip until he knows it looks mildly bruised.

He’s not more than two steps closer when his path is blocked, and he tips his head upwards, stumbling carefully on his feet. The Duke of Hereford meets his eye, Lord John Russell, and he’s a tall man, thin yet wiry, and he smiles down kindly into Dean’s face. His hair is streaked with faded strands and his surreptitiously adjusts the red of his jerkin.

“My Lord Smith, what a pleasant turn of events to come across you this morn.” He inclines his head and Dean follows suit, deeper, as he is an Earl by courtesy, while Russell is Duke by King’s grant.

He allows his voice to become high and breathy, blinks rapidly into the dark grey eyes of the Lord. “The pleasure belongs to me, Lord Russell.” He glances down bashfully at his hosiery, then back up into John’s eyes.

“I do hope I am not interrupting you from your errands…?” He allows the words to trail off into a question and then glances back upward, eyes blinking heavy and slow.

The Duke huffs out his air and does not answer straightaway.

“I am to be at a gathering,” he flounders, and Dean suppresses a small grin of mirth.

“I shall do my utmost not to keep you any longer, then.” Dean makes as if to step aside, pressing slightly closer to the Lord in his departure, and the man’s long fingers snake out, cup his arm at his elbow. Dean tilts his head far back, green eyes wide at the sudden halt of his progress.

It is at this precise moment that Lord Winchester opens the doors to his apartments and steps purposefully into the hall. He is nearly completely turned in the direction of King Henry’s chambers when he seems to catch sight of the display in his peripheral.

The smile on his face drops so rapidly it is like watching the dance between dawn and dusk. Dean has not had the opportunity to properly observe just how broad the Marquess is, as he draws his shoulders up to full height.

“My Lord Russell,” Winchester offers, thread of stone caressing his speech. Dean backs up gingerly when John releases his elbow and coughs in his throat.

“Lord Winchester.” He smiles, congenially and turns away from Dean. “Shall I be seeing you at the Feast on All Hallows Eve?”

Dean watches various expressions flit across Winchester’s face, and swivels his head to glance at John. John’s face is the picture of decorum, yet Dean is aware that Lord Russell only wishes to inquire as to how long Samuel will remain within the Palace walls, and whether or not he will be returning to Surrey for his father.

“As His Majesty has recently appointed me to serve in his Privy Chamber, my answer must be in the affirmative.”

Sam steps closer to the pair and Dean’s heart speeds up a fraction, because he’s not sure of what to do if two highborn Lords come to a brawl in the corridor of Hampton Court.

Lord Russell is the first to acquiesce, he is older than Lord Winchester, and his wife is currently with child. John smiles confidentially at Dean as he sweeps past, and Dean allows color to flood his cheeks as he turns back in Sam’s direction.

He stumbles back a step, but Winchester is having none of it. He utilizes his considerable bulk to stonewall Dean into his rooms, shutting the door behind him with a deceptively soft click.

“Are you cavorting with the Lord Russell?” The words are hissed through sealed teeth, and Dean lifts his head to look into Sam’s eyes.

They’re cloth of gold and green, but they darken now with rage and Dean sucks his lip into his mouth.

Sam’s eyes chase the movement and then he lifts his hand, plucking the muscle from between Dean’s teeth.

“You have no understanding of the temptation you present when you do that.” The words are more growled than spoken, and Dean shifts so that his body arches prettily in the direction of the Marquess.

“I have come in explanation as to my father’s absence. His leg causes him great pain in the morn, and he was unable to keep our appointment.” Dean gasps a little as Sam crowds into his personal space.

“There shall be no more of that.” Dean is flummoxed as to what Sam is referring to.

Sam pushes him against the wall, a gentility that is at odds with the words he is using.  “I apologize if I am rather incensed about the state of affairs.” Dean runs his fingers across the red of Sam’s jerkin and then removes his hands, as if burned.

“I apologize, I did not mean to touch you thus--” his words fade away and he sputters, peeks up through long lashes to find Sam’s intense gaze trained on his own.

“I have not been able to concentrate, for distraction of you.” The words are muttered lowly, and a familiar feeling spreads through Dean’s veins.

“Shall that pose an issue, My Lord,” Dean whispers, a fraction more daring than he usually attempts during this stage. Sam smiles, runs one finger down the length of Dean’s cheek.

“Mayhap.” Sam withdraws to his full height, leaving Dean bereft of the warmth cloaking him. Dean tugs his lip into his mouth again, and then releases it, glancing up at Sam boldly.

“I am to be betrothed, and I know you are aware that I am the only son of my father.” Sam smiles warmly and steps back, glancing at his reflection in the hanging mirror beside the oak stool of his bed.

“I am twenty and six, Dean. I have only to choose a maiden so that I might be married.” His brow furrows.

“With my father’s illness, that shall occur sooner rather than later.” He struggles with the lacing on his linen, and Dean steps closer, reaches up pale hands to do the work himself. Sam holds himself respectfully still, until he snakes a hand out to wrap around Dean’s waist.

Dean hums in his throat and smiles wanly.

“Then you mustn’t be so free with me, Lord Winchester.” He retreats as he finishes the dressing and Sam raises a dark eyebrow in his direction.

“Pray tell, why am I disallowed my indulgence?” Dean shivers in his position near the window, E-shaped glass providing him with a wide view of the fields surrounding the Palace.

“Tis, unseemly, for men of our station.” He flushes at the words, carefully crafted, and is surprised to hear Sam’s laughter, low baritone in the wide room.

He leans forward, conspiratorially. “Harry is a great companion of mine. He shall turn a blind eye to whatever dalliances I see fit to pursue.” Sam sighs heavily. “My father’s demise is imminent, and I have only myself and my God to answer to.”

He inclines his head.

“Even the Lord is to answer to penance.” Sam finishes cheekily. Dean huffs out a small laugh in amusement at Sam’s casual blasphemy. That’s right then, Sam shall not be deterred by any manner of religious frivolity or fear of his standing in court.

He is preferred favorite of the King, and has full possession of His Majesty’s ear.

Sam looks reluctant as he takes long strides to his exit. “I am to meet my King, but I’ll not see any more of what I witnessed to-day in the corridor.”

Sam repeats this as simple fact, and Dean clears his throat.

“I can assure you, Sam, that you will not be party to any affairs such as the sort of this morn.” He slips out of his apartments before the older man can gape in his direction.

Dean is not averse to the skip in his step as he heads to his own rooms, and he is incredibly accustomed to receiving everything he is after.

-

Sam is far less than focused when he arrives at the Presence Chamber later in the noon, and waits patiently near Harry’s right hand as he answers missives and peruses documents.

Harry loves the class-room, the act of learning, but he sweats profusely during these things, and Sam notes that he is more fluid than he looked seven years prior, great eyes turned upon Sam’s face in a panic.

_Why, Sammy, they have discussed everything of import with Art. And now he’s gone and died, leaving me in this predicament._

Sam snorts inelegantly as he remembers Henry’s lamentations. They had been training him for the Church, as the second-born.

Harry was always better suited for the kingship. Sam remembers Arthur, the playful slaps of his thin hands on top of Sam’s hair.

They had both outgrown him rather quickly, Arthur always being of lesser constitution in his youth.  Harry and Sam had many a romp in the gardens and fields, besting one another at jousting and fencing, Harry always better at the former, Sam sweeping him in the latter.

And then Art had died, far away, at Ludlow, in Shropshire, with Cathy.

Sam shakes his head on the thought of the matter. They had all been close to one another, Henry and Margaret especially, and they never fully recovered from the death of the eldest.

Harry retires himself early, and Sam can see the tension lines forming in his head. Sam does not say much when Harry begins to bellow, back in the safety of his Privy Chamber, and sends all but his most trusted Gentleman out, as it is between meals and he sees no reason for them to loiter about.

Brandon hangs about in the entryway, engaged in deep discussion with Wolsey, and Sam hums deep in his throat.

Charles Brandon is of a good sort, and he and Sam routinely coerced Henry into more dastardly deeds as he grew older, and more loathe of disappointing his father. Brandon shirked his lessons, more oft when he was a young boy, not as much as when he grew older.

Brandon looks up over the head of the Cardinal and smiles pleasantly, drawn out wink in Sam’s direction. Sam snorts and waves his hand dismissively, fiddles with the one ring on his left hand.

Harry follows his gaze and then slumps, continuing to grumble under his breath.

Sam settles in beside him, ignoring the glares of envy from the Gentlemen in the background. “You have been overtaxing yourself, Harry,” he whispers, the informality of the name unseemly in present company.

Harry shrugs and widens his shoulders. “There has not been a moment’s peace given to me.” He pauses, eyes wide. “Sammy, I have not had any to my marital bed since Mary was birthed.” Sam hums thoughtfully, recalls the nine months babe.

She is Harry’s pride and joy, no matter her not being a son, and Sam sees Henry’s relief in just discussing her, considerate of the fact that seven years was a long time to be without an heir, no matter the mishaps that occurred along the way.

Sam claps a large hand on Harry’s shoulder and sighs.

“If you refuse to enjoy the bounty of your Kingdom, I myself hold no such qualms.” Harry’s mouth quirks up despite himself.

“What is that you say? You wish to enjoy the fruits of our labor?” Sam groans in response. “I should like to ravish the Earl of Huntingdon, and I shall not rest until that has been achieved.” Harry eyes him strangely, then glances over to where Brandon is extricating himself from the Cardinal’s grasp.

“I do not think, you shall find him as fair and docile as you may be hoping for, Sammy.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam is not provided with the pleasure of the Lord Smith’s countenance for most a fortnight following their unfortunate last meeting.

He has perused most every corridor he can fathom the boy to be in, but he seems to have dissipated into thin air.

All Hallows Eve arrived rather sooner than later, and Sam has not seen head nor tail of the boy, and the feast is to be this evening. He assumes Smith is to come decorated with a Lady upon his arm, fine jewels of Court, and the idea fills him with no minor amount of rage.

He supposes he is feeling relatively entitled about the entire affair, but Sam has always fully occupied the position of his birth. He has also never truly wanted for anything, and here he is, confronted with something that is not meant to belong to him.

He does not prefer male over female, he takes his pleasure where he may, enjoys supple breasts and gently muscled chests. He and Harry had never found any wrongs in it, and Harry was wont to grow stiff-necked with the Church over time. He did so like his own way in all things.

Sam knows that his King desires fair trinkets for his bed, but he must be more discreet than Sam about the affair.

Sam wryly observes as Harry flits around his Chambers with relative impatience, and his Yeoman stand by, perturbed.

“Harry,” he calls out gaily, reclining into the brocaded armchair in the center of the rooms, “must you go about so, I have no patience for it.”

Brandon snorts disdainfully under his breath and moves two paces to the right, just as Sam plants his feet more firmly on the floor in the effort of bracing himself.

Harry turns, the same quickness he exhibited when sparring in youth, and lunges for Sam’s neck, face flushed from throat to forehead. Sam guffaws and quickly catches Harry’s arms at the quick, parrying off his blows with ease.

Brandon sucks his teeth during the brawl, quickly stifled laugh lingering in his throat. “Sammy, you ought to allow him a breath. You know he is wont to look his best for the Lady Blount.” Sam releases his King’s wrists and the man cuffs him about the head, with a disturbing lack of gentility.

Sam allows it good-naturedly, because, though Henry oft needs misrule in order to gain perspective, he is far more wary of being taken for a fool these days.

Sam reclines once more and raises a questioning brow to Brandon. The man’s lips quirk up in approval, and it seems to Sam that he has more or less accomplished the deed.

When Harry turns around again, his good coloring has returned, and he holds broad palms on his hips expectantly.

“Sammy, I am aware that you have words regarding my--” he glares here at Brandon, who shrugs in abandon, “professed engagement with the Lady Blount?” Sam drags his palms up dark hose and takes care to disallow his ring to snag the fabric.

“I have naught to say on the matter one way or the other, My King.” Sam pauses when Henry glares at him with mild disbelief. “She has remained ever vigilant, I should think you would be able to bed her directly on the dias of the Great Room, were you so inclined.”

Brandon guffaws here, bent over at the waist, his doublet bunched about his chest.

“Why yes, Sammy’s got the spirit of the matter. She is a bit of a minx, that one.” Harry roars, and Sam flicks tears from his eyes, ever pleased to see Henry back in his preferable good graces.

“I remain skeptical--” Harry glances down at his hands in some amusement. “Cathy has not been well of late, and with Mary so young--?” His voice trails into nothingness and Sam wipes the smirk from his features.

“I have no great cause to harm the Queen, my Liege,” he begins carefully. Harry can be rather even-tempered when he is of the sort, but he has never been especially cool-headed when it concerns matters of the heart.

He recalls Henry’s decision to wed the Spanish Princess, despite proclamations from his father and other advisors at court.

They’d needed a Papal dispensation to be wed, despite Cathy’s insistence that her marriage to Art had never been consummated. Sam is rather inclined to agree with the Lady upon this matter, as Arthur was ill so shortly after the departure that he was probably not afforded the opportunity.

Brandon swears under his breath and Sam blatantly ignores him.

“She has no great need of you in her bed.” Harry draws himself up, but Sam plunges ahead, staving off the impending storm.

“It is your right, as God given King, to take your satisfaction.” Sam glances up, surprised that Brandon has cut in, though less astonished at his support. He and Brandon are more level-headed about these matters, and the man shrugs, pushes his dark hair away from his face.

Harry releases his air in a puff and sits down heavily on the edge of his bed, pushes the canopy of cloth of gold and Tudor Red away from his person.

“Tis not as if I have not had dalliances prior, but you know Cathy, Sam.” Sam bites his tongue, refraining from referring to her as snow-cold, as she was not so frigid when they were youth. She looked to Harry as if he painted the sky solely for her benefit.

She looks to him favorably yet, but his men and his advisors receive her ill-concealed contempt, and it does not sit well with Sam. Nothing that has ever been against Harry has ever caused him any relief, and that stands true even from childhood.

Henry’s face hardens a fraction and he stands, more self-possessed. He looks at Sam, calculating, making a fetid mix of affection and concern.

“Brandon,” he begins, holding his arms out for his Yeoman to disrobe him, “Sammy here has taken a liking to the Earl of Huntingdon. Smith’s boy?” He says this last cautiously and Brandon’s back stiffens.

“You’ll not get very far with that one. Have you not heard of his like at court?” The open sores of Brandon’s voice take him aback, even as he tilts his head in interest. “What say you? I feel as if there remains a history with the boy, mayhap.”

Brandon opens and closes his fists.

“At one time, I held great affection for him.” His words are clipped and short, and Sam knows not to press on the matter, especially due the fact that Harry and Brandon have not always been as stalwart as they now appear.

Brandon still pays Harry annums due to his unseemly marriage to his sister, the Princess Mary, Dowager Queen of France, and from the way Harry’s back stiffens at Brandon’s terse response, Sam is aware that this continues to be a spot of contention between them.

Sam sighs. Harry loves Mary, he does, but he will never forgive the loss of his pawn.

He ruminates on what Brandon has begrudgingly provided him, mildly irritated with the conversation at large. Is he meant to be warned off? And if so, of what, precisely?

-

As these things tend to go, it is less than spectacular when he meets Dean for the third time, and he is honestly rather astonished at the turn of events, due to the fact that he is dressed in the attire of a warrior, to Harry’s own bedecked kingship, and therefore barely recognizable.

All Hallows Eve sports a feast for the masses, and Harry and Sam have been covetous of the evening from youth, having been handed the gratuity of soft flesh and flaxen hair at the ripe age of five and ten. Harry was betrothed to Catherine during this period, still comprised of love and honor, and had abstained from general merrymaking.

Sam was rather vexed that year, as Harry’s impending destiny tended to sour the most congenial of times.

Presently, Sam is seated, well composed and dressed, sword sheathed by his hip, his Lady entertaining her peers further down the Great Table. Brandon remains rigid by the side of him, hand closed tightly over his cup of mead, rings of gold digging into white knuckles.

Sam is pondering what it might resemble, to be in the possession of a better half, to look to and for them in all things.

It is then that the slight frame of Lord Dean Smith skirts by him, and Sam refrains, by the skin of his teeth, from reaching out to grab the Earl.

He is rather uncouth in his own dealings, but twould be extremely unbecoming to profess his cares in such an open arena.

Harry is laughing at him, he can feel the tremors in the man’s knee, from where he is seated, on the highest step of his guests. His wooden platforms are strewn with red and silver, and Sam nudges at them with his toe in spite.

He dines at the King’s Table, deference of his close friendship with Harry, and communes with his family, what remains of it. Cathy sits, stiff-backed and solemn on Harry’s right, and she bows her head in prayer, four times, from Sam’s count.

The centre-piece is cacophonous, although it is not easily heard over the Pavane in the center of court. Sam taps his foot idly, he should like very much to dance, and he will once Harry has given his by my leave.

The piece is surrounded in peacock feathers of varying hues, greens, blues and violets, and the entire affair is outfitted in a silver cage, hollow within to contain the exotic array of birds caught for this very event.

Beaks and claws are gilt, and Sam listens to the familiar clink of jewels upon metal. The time between the first and second course seems interminable, and Sam rises, having not eaten as much at the start in order to save room for the remaining dishes.

The first course had included a civet of hare, and a quarter of stag which had been a night in salt, and Sam hums in appreciation for the options.

It is then that he catches sight of the boy, middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by ladies who titter about, and Sam can hear their prattle from here. On the outskirts of the perimeter lies the less conspicuous men, momentarily detached from the personage of their ladies.

He recalls that he has accompanied the Lady Talbot to this affair, and she remains one of the most lucrative of choices for his bed, and his coffers.

She has a smart mouth, but Sam is always prepared for a jest, and does not mind this aspect as much as other suitors may have. She is six and ten, and her family has oft looked upon his with favor. He is in a bit of high demand, as the impending death of his father will render him even more profitable than he is at the current.

Bela remains seated with her other highborn ladies, and Sam smiles when he thinks of the creamy skin that lies exposed under her gowns. He wants her maidenhead, but he will be sure not to ruin her. There is a difference between a dalliance and the destruction of a reputation.

No, he will exercise discretion in his dealings.

Dean is clothed in cloth of silver, with a jerkin of deepest green, so close to black it may be mistaken as such.

His eyes are dancing with what Sam can tell is amusement, and Sam chuckles under his breath. The boy is humored by the presence of so many suitors vying for his attentions.

Sam has the fleeting thought that he is just one of the masses, but he cannot reconcile that image with himself.

He may be many things, but he does not often lose, and from past experience, he does not lose well. It is one of the many things he and Harry have in common, although Harry tends to be a bit more short-tempered.

He stands on the outskirts, ignoring the heavy leer of Lord Russell, even as his wife clings to his arm, white washed, plain thing. A bounty of lands due her dowry, though, if Sam is to remember correctly. Dean’s gaze skims him over and the white-hot sting of rejection flutters to life in his veins.

He’s not over-proud, he knows himself comely and tends to exist within that knowledge, but never has he been dismissed so thoroughly. He’s moving before he can better think of it, and he looks out into the crowd, where he can see that the couples are about to attempt the Lavolta.

Personally, it is one his favorite dancing holds, and routinely considered inappropriate by the Church. He is too far away to catch Harry’s eye, but were he able, he knows the other man would be laughing in mirth.

Court remains distracted by the spectacle, and, as they turn as one, Sam grips Dean’s wrist and strongarms him out onto one of several balconies, sounds of the feast directly muted.

The boy’s eyes are wide, and his skin is flushed with exertion and drink. Sam is cupping his fingers around the soft skin before he can think, and the boy jerks his head out of reach.

“I shall not have you pushing me into every crevice you see fit, My Lord. You dine with the King. Why have you lowered yourself to come to speak with me?”

Sam releases his air in a rush. “I cannot seem to abstain from seeking you out. You are nothing I should want.”

Dean presses closer, lips stained with wine and ale, and Sam thinks that God must have a score to settle with him, or he would not tempt him thus.

“You are a sin, Dean,” he whispers, rarity of the boy’s Christian name.

Dean’s lips curve up, so enticingly, that Sam swoops down immediately, dizzy in the sudden rush. Dean’s mouth moves hurriedly over his own, and Sam bites down heavily, and is rewarded with a small cry of pain.

He runs his hands down the boy’s flanks and digs long fingers into the firm flesh of Dean’s ass. He must ride often, Sam thinks saucily.

He moves his mouth from Dean’s own, sparing a look for the flushed skin and swollen lips, and nibbles softly at the sensitive skin between neck and ear, cock hardening at the way Dean’s throat is spilling out mewls of pleasure. Dean’s chest arches compliantly in his direction and Sam’s hips jerk forward of their own accord, his length jutting against the other’s stomach.

Dean pulls away, heaving his air out in unsure pants, and Sam is a conglomerate of daggers when he smiles, reaches for the soft pink of his boy greedily.

“I’ll not rest until I have you.” Sam breathes out, his chest heaving.

“I shall make it so the King gives you as mine.” Dean smiles, and it is a heavier weight than he has shown before.

“You will tire of me yet, Lord Winchester.” He ducks back inside before Sam can formulate another, more coherent response, and Sam thinks he may need to truss the boy up so that they can begin to finish a conversation.

-

Dean maintains a certain level of decorum as he exits the presence of the Marquess, which is, in fact, more difficult than it would seem, due to the fact that he remains surrounded by drunken courtiers, and then there begins the painfully obvious pairing off of couples.

Dean might take a warm body to bed, if he so choose, but he has no interest in the female form, supple breasts and wet cunts hold no allure for him, and he needn’t feign interest until it becomes absolutely imperative.

He requires air. He needs to be away from the stifling heat and cloying scents of fragrance so that he may think.

He presses himself to the tapestry behind him, a depiction of English countryside, with the King hunting game with his men, surrounded by thick blades of grass and sweltering summer heat. He presses his face into his palms, wine swimming in his blood.

“You are not more than a fool, Dean.” The words startle him from his stupor and he levers himself upright with a huff of surprised air.

His face twists when he catches sight of his interloper, and he leans backwards once more, countenance dimmed.

“Have you come to spit in my face yet again, Brandon?” He mutters the words lowly, painful stretch from his throat.

Brandon steps closer, three long strides, and takes Dean’s chilled hands within his own, light brown eyes tangled up with melancholy. “I will never. I have never, Dean.” Brandon exhales, and it is a stutter in his throat, bastard of a sob.

“You know naught what you seek. Methinks you foolish. Winchester is a patient man, but he will not be taken for a jester.” Dean tugs his hands away.

“Never would I treat him as such.” Brandon sighs, once again, and reaches for Dean, pulls him close to his chest. “I have never ceased in my desire for you.” Dean stiffens at the admission, feels the warm puff of air against his scalp.

Brandon tips his head back and slots his mouth over Dean’s own, and Dean remembers, hot rush of blood, what it meant to have everything he thought he desired, to be in full possession of love and security.

Dean whimpers and pushes away, using Brandon’s chest as leverage. The other man’s face is tempered, and he stands rigidly, eyes pained.

“You are aware of what may befall you if you repeat, Dean. I shall not suffer you harm.” Dean nods dumbly, and he feels the cross he must bear, heavy against his chest. “I beseech you, M’Lord, remove yourself from the situation. Methinks there shall be no goodly outcome when it concerns you.”

Dean arches his eyebrow, thin smile in place as he addresses Brandon. The familiar flush of anger resides on the Duke’s visage, and Dean readily recalls all the past instances in which he was the cause.

“I would be loathe to leave you exposed.” Brandon says stubbornly.

Dean twists his fingers in one another. “You are brother-in-law to His Majesty, by virtue of matrimony to the Princess Mary. Twould serve you well to shelter your sensibilities from my person.” Brandon reaches for his sleeve, futile grasp, but Dean skirts around him.

He has been disallowed to make his own bed, but he must lie in it, nevertheless. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, hopefully you guys are still relatively into this, because there is a lot of upcoming drama in my version of King Henry's court.

Dean had trained his own falcons as a child, directed to do so by his father.

He remembers cleaning the mews of falcons and eagles for their rigorous tests, the smell of molting feathers and bird defecation lingering in the air.

Dean remembers the falconer that his father hired, put upon Dean to learn everything he could from the man, learn how to care and bend his will toward the birds.

He could not bear to be harsh with the animal, even though he deigned to domesticate a beast.

He named his favorite Arrow.

He remembers the day Arrow was felled by the King’s, then the Crowned Prince’s, falcon, and it has stuck with him ever since then.

He was only nine, practicing in fields outside of Greenwich, the other boys too engrossed in boxing to be of any real companionship.

Arrow wasn't vicious enough, he can clearly see that now, understands the way his beast had bowed under pressure, beleaguered by his own sense of propriety.

And two great lads of nine and ten, galloping over to inspect the kill. Dean had not cried, ever vexed he was of the situation, he had not done that.

Dean recalls standing motionless, watching the phantom trip of Arrow’s wings, gouges dug out in the center of his neck, collapsed in on himself. Dean is the only child of his Lord Father, and the sole heir of the Smith estate, but right now, he just feels a little chilled inside, more dead than naught.

He has not moved from his spot when he hears the cries of the Prince, and he had glanced up, can see the autumn-leaf and rich brown of tousled heads galloping his way. He wanted to cry, bury his face into the dirt and break-open with worms and soil, but he made still.

The Prince dismounts, and Dean doesn’t know then that his father the King is to die soon, lay gasping for air in his sickbed, sweating the life directly out of his pores.

The Prince is tall, taller than the other boy, who is a veritable giant himself, perhaps only an inch shorter than the stature of His Majesty.

Dean sinks to his knees in obsequience, and the boys are chuckling again, as if Dean has done something exceptionally merry.

“Ought not to laugh and neglect to share the jape,” Dean mutters, and of a sudden, he hears the distinct sound of a dismount, the squared, broad toe of a riding boot entering his frame of vision.

“Rise, child,” and this is the first time His Majesty’s voice is directed to him, and he scrambles upright in a desperate bid to see who his future King might be, since the elder died at Ludlow, some years hence, his father tells him.

The Prince is comely, fine red hair, red as the emblem of the Tudor Rose, and Dean tilts his head to the side. The man beside him is none the less handsome for having been accompanied by the Prince, fine dark hair that is pulled away from his face with a leather thong.

His eyes are slanted in mirth, look like the windows in Westminster during Mass in the morn.

“You are Lord Smith’s only issue, are you not?” Dean starts. It is the second boy who speaks, and his smile is white-sharp and kind, and he seems to realize his height poses a great discomfort, squats until he is closer to Dean’s own stature.

“I am the Earl of Huntingdon, yes, my Lord,” Dean says, as he has been taught by his tutors and governesses alike.

The boy grins at him and cranes his neck up to glance back at the Prince.

“See that Harry, we’ve got ourselves a Lord here!” Dean’s rather nonplussed, never seen anyone refer to the Prince by his Christian name, and he starts a little bit, sways in place.

The Prince--Harry, for that matter, seems not to mind in the least, throws his neck back to laugh, holds one bejeweled hand close to his chest, against the cream of his chemise.

“Sammy, we have done the boy a disservice,” the Prince begins, and Dean’s growing red in the face at their treatment of him. They might be several ages his elder, but he is not to be mocked.

The boy called Sammy’s face hardens, and he turns around, can see where Arrow lay pinned against the spring-green of the ground, in his death, mottled brown and black of his wings strewn across the grass.

Dean’s throat closes up at the sight, and he makes as if to go toward it, cradle his falcon in his arms until he can be sent home to his father’s house in Sussex, buried where he was raised.

Sammy grabs at his wrist and locks him into place, rising with Dean still firmly trapped in his grasp.

“Harry, send for someone. The boy would like to see his pet cleaned up and sent to his father’s apartments at court, I am to assume?” Sammy directs his comment to Dean, and Dean is taken aback. He did not expect this.

“I am--” he stutters, head swiveling between the kindly face of the Prince to the indulgent one of his friend. “Yes, my Lord,” Dean says stiffly.

Sammy appears perplexed at the sudden shift in attitude, and then reaches out to slap the Prince on his shoulder. The Prince stumbles with a growl, and he makes as if to untie Sammy’s hair from its knot at the base of his neck.

“We have yet to introduce ourselves, you great oaf,” Sammy jests, and then makes a grand gesture in front of Dean, in the direction of His Majesty.

“This great cad here, is your Crown Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, Earl of Chester--” the boy stops his saucy recitation when the Prince cuffs him against the back of his head. Dean’s mouth is cracked a little bit on a grin, and he raises his brows.

“I know who His Majesty is,” Dean pipes up from between the tussling the two provide. The Prince turns the brightness of his smile down upon Dean, and for the first time, Dean finds himself bashful in their presence, the sun of their gaze too heavy.

“I would warrant you do. Taught by your wet nurse from the time you could crawl about,” The Prince snorts, and Dean finds himself smiling again. The Prince reaches out a hand and drapes it against the small hook of Dean’s shoulder, his left hand still caught in the sun-warm grip of Sammy.

Dean can barely breathe for how close His Majesty is. What is he supposed to do? What if he accidentally shakes him away?

“This homely, lowborn fool is the Lord Samuel Winchester, Marquess of Winchester, Earl of Gloucester, and if his father is to _ever_ join the angels, the next Duke of Surrey.” Dean’s mouth has crawled down into his throat to fester and die.

How is it, that these things continue to plague him? What are the odds, that he, a boy of nine, would be cornered by an exceedingly highborn Lord, and the heir-apparent to the Throne? Lord Winchester seems to see his blanch of color, and then something worse happens.

Lord Winchester releases his wrist only to heave him up so that he is situated against his broad back, tangle of muscle and bone underneath Dean’s thin hips.

He must make an uncouth sound, a mewl of anxiety, for both erupt in laughter again, and my God, the world is quite a bit bigger from up here. Dean resists the urge to press the warmth of his skin into the back of the Marquess’ neck, and straightens up.

The Prince claps him on the back, quite a bit softer than he did for Lord Winchester earlier, but it still makes Dean smile proudly.

“I am not a girl, to be kept and carried,” Dean says sullenly, digs the heels of his feet into Lord Winchester’s sides.

Sammy guffaws and sets off at a walk, toward the Thoroughbreds that prance in place, no doubt well-trained by the Prince’s Master of Horse. They are both stallions, although the Prince’s stands about a head taller than the Lord Winchester’s, as befits the heir-apparent.

It isn’t until Dean is firmly situated on Lord Winchester’s horse, Sam firmly behind him, hands tight against the reins, that Sam leans down to whisper the horse’s name into the shell of Dean’s ear.

“He is called Storm’s End, you see,” Sam begins kindly, as if Dean has not been riding since he was old enough to walk.

They begin at a trot, which quickly escalates into a gallop at the insistence of His Highness, and it is then that Dean remembers the way Arrow’s body had curved in the wind as one of their own falcons had sliced into him from behind.

-

Sam takes care to duck as a heavy tome sails past his head. It splinters open against the wood of the floor, spine cracking, and Sam glances down, bemused.

“She is naught more than a Spanish mare, and a whore, at that.” Harry’s words are cutting, as they’re meant to be, but Sam has known him long enough to be aware that he does not mean them, he’s hot-headed on the best of days.

Sam spreads his legs wide as he waits for Harry to outgrow his latest tirade.

“At Mass, you see, before the sun had even deigned to rise from amongst the clouds, Sammy, she claims she was praying for my eternal soul.” Sam’s spine stiffens from his perch.

That is a level of disrespect he has never seen from Cathy, never thought her back would be strong enough to bear.

“As if I do not rule by divine _right,”_ Harry spits, flings his cloak aside to shove at his slashed sleeves. “As if I am a child to be reprimanded.” Sam rises, takes his place against the brocaded pillows of Harry’s bed, befitting a king, and more importantly, made long enough to fit both Sam and Harry’s abnormally long frames.

“Her ladies accompany her, mind you,” Harry continues, dissuaded by Sam’s long silence. “She makes a--a jape of me, in the presence of her ladies-in-waiting, as if I am a commoner to be mocked!” Sam nods his head slowly, acknowledges Harry’s woes.

“Well?” Harry spins, fixing Sam with the torch of his glare, bright blue of his eyes twinkling in rage. “What say you?” Harry says.

Sam runs his fingers through his hair, prays that he’ll be able to temper the King.

“She is vexed, Your Highness,” he begins, carefully, and Harry’s face twists. “Do not begin to call me by my title, as if you have a shred of propriety in all your bones, Winchester.” Sam cannot help by laugh at that, the indignant way in which Harry knows that he is a pisspot.

“Good, then, Harry, I’ve not had you fooled.” Sam pauses, and then presses forward. “I mean to say, Her Highness is troubled, and mayhap, ashamed, Harry, that you have taken another to bed.” Sam holds up placating hands when Harry winds up to yell.

“Let me be, Harry, and listen.” Sam says. “She need not make a jape of you, it does not become her, though little aids her beauty in these days,” Sam adds dryly, if only to see the ghost of a smile on Harry’s face.

“She means to make you aware that she knows, and is less than pleased.” Harry slumps down into the gold of his armchair, head thrown back carelessly.

“God’s teeth, Sam, I give naught for what she thinks of me.” Sam snorts quietly, laying that falsehood to rest.

“No matter her fury, you remain a King of England, and a rather decent sort at that, and she remains your lady wife by your grace and your fealty to her,” Sam says thoughtfully, because, it’s true. Harry sits back up, nodding.

“And you would have me, what, to the Queen?” Sam rolls his eyes back in his head. Harry is aware that he is oft too rash in his punishments, and it is a testament to how far he has calmed that he is even asking Sam his opinion on the matter.

“I would think it beneficial to not attend Mass with Her Majesty for a fortnight.” Sam shrugs his shoulder. “Her ladies tell me it is oft the height of her day when you join her for morn and mid-day Mass.” Sam says. “I should think it befitting that you take the time alone to pray to the Mother _personally_ , for the salvation of your black-hearted soul.” Sam quips.

Harry’s face is flushed with mirth, and he’s howling his laughter so vibrantly that Sam will not be roused even if all of Harry’s men-at-arms are to burst into his chambers at this very moment in search of danger.

“God’s wounds, Sam, I wonder why you aren’t King if you are to have all the good ideas.” Sam holds up his hands in horror. “I would not take that Crown from atop your head for all the coin in London, Harry.” Sam says.

Harry is serious, but only for a moment, and then he slaps his hand against his knee.

“Have you had contact with your Lord father,” Harry asks suddenly, eyes focused. Sam rolls his neck in the dead air. “His manservants write for him, as he no longer retains the energy.” Sam shakes his head. “T’was he who sent me away, did not think a man ought to see his father die.”

Harry’s face clouds over as he rises, crosses over to his window.

“My father would only have grandmother at his side when the time came.” Harry says. Sam does not have to see his countenance to know that his eyes are twisted with residual grief.

“And me, his only living son--” Harry’s voice cuts soft at that, and then the room is bathed in silence, something that Sam normally condones with relative pleasantries, but now it only feels like the hangman’s noose about his throat.

“I am to take a wife, soon,” Sam begins instead, his mind flitting to the pale of Lord Smith’s neck, the way it rises and falls as color bleeds into the skin.

Harry turns around, his mouth quirked in a poor approximation of a smile. “You need only ask, and you know I shall provide you with my blessing,” Harry begins, but Sam waves him off.

“You would let me take Lord Smith to my bed, give him my seed and keep him in my rooms?” Sam says airily, eyes cast above him at the cream of Harry’s ceiling.

Harry sputters for a second, and Sam glances over at where Harry is once more facing the glass, gaze inscrutable.

“Tis unseemly, Sam,” Harry begins, but waves his hand negligently when Sam sputters around his disbelief.

“I mean not to censor you, Sam, you may bed anyone you wish and I shall think nothing of it, nor forbade you, as it has always been.” Harry says. Sam relaxes a fraction, admonishes himself for ever believing that Harry might impose rules upon him.

“I mean to say, you must take a wife.” Harry says, and Sam sighs in agreement. “I have no qualms about taking a woman,” Sam starts, tone hushed. “I mean to get her swollen with child, give her so many sons I might pass them ‘round the countryside as my own retinue of men-at-arms.” Sam says.

Harry guffaws and then the air in the room is right again, less laden by fidelity and the want of smooth thighs and hushed promises of eternal love.

Dean strikes him in a place he thought long buried, where his Lady Mother remains, entombed alongside her babe Charles, the one that his father will not deign to honor with his voice.

He means to have what he wants, and he’s in no position not to receive it.

On the morrow, Harry is to call the Privy Council to convene with he and Wolsey over the advent of the Treaty of London, and Sam would really like to have his wits about him for the event. He thinks of Brandon, and how he has not seen much of him since Harry bade him expose his former relationship with Smith to Sam.

It lights Sam up with propriety, but even he is not so daft as to imagine that he has any prior claim over the boy, no matter what he may want to think otherwise.

Brandon has the Dowager Queen of France now, Harry’s own sister, and he’s paid dearly enough for the luxury, Sam thinks in mild contempt.

He’s always felt there was a line to Harry’s generosity, and simply because they sit high in Harry’s favor does not allow them to be callous with the benefit. Brandon is most fortunate that he was bred alongside them as children, to be afforded the mercy that Harry extended to him in wake of the scandal.

Neither man has spoken in several minutes past, when Sam glances up at a commotion outside of Harry’s Privy Chambers, the shouts of men-at-arms and the distinct sound of running footsteps.

Sam turns to face Harry, and then they are both moving, fluidity borne of long years spent fencing together, fighting for and against one another since they were babes suckling on the breasts of wet-nurses.

Sam catches his longsword from its rest against Harry’s armoire and twists it into his hands, thick tapered blade. The hilt is pommel, same as it has been for the entirety of his life, and he hefts the light-weight of it, twists the silver in the air.

The cut of it is slim but pointed, and Sam does not look at Harry when he stands in front and to the right of him.

The footsteps come closer and pause outside of the door, and Sam tilts his head back.

“Behind me, Your Highness.” Sam says, and it is a testament to the seriousness with which Henry regards the situation that he does not voice a complaint, or make a crude jape about the entire affair.

“My Liege,” Sam hears suddenly, from beyond the blockade of Harry’s door, and the blade wavers in his grasp at the honorific.

“Your Liege,” the voice repeats thickly, and then Harry is swinging past him, and Sam’s quickly sheathing his sword in his scabbard, practically tripping in his haste to grab hold of Harry’s shoulder.

“God’s teeth, Harry, what are you about?” Sam hisses, but Harry shakes him off in irritation. “Tis the Master of the Posts, Sammy.” Harry replies, and then Sam recognizes the low pitch of Sir Brian Tuke, and Harry flings his door wide, no thought to his personal safety, Sam thinks irritably.

“I have said we were not to be disturbed,” Harry bellows, and Sam barely refrains from rolling his eyes at the royal we.

The man appears disheveled, as if he has run a great distance, and the plethora of broadswords and longswords aimed at his person as he trembles in wake of the King make Sam chuckle from his position just behind Harry.

The man kneels quickly, and Sam can see that there is parchment clutched in his fist.

“What have you there,” Sam calls out, motions to the papers. The man does not look up, but his voice is firm when he chooses to speak.

“Begging the pardons of my Lord and His Majesty, but I have just now brought this urgent missive back from Surrey, and it is addressed to the Marquess of Winchester.” Tuke says.

Sam pushes his body forward, heart cold and heated in equal measures. “Let us have it then, shall we Sir?” Sam says, forcing politeness out of his throat like poison from a wound.

Sam unfolds the paper in front of God, man, and God’s own King, and he does not shake when he reads the contents.

It is the soft worry in Harry’s voice when he finishes that brings him back, the naked curiosity on the face of his King.

“Be it proper,” Harry begins, “pray tell what news was so alarming that my Master of Post risked life and manhood to deliver it?” To Tuke’s credit, he does not flinch at the mention of his cock, and Sam curls his fists around the letter.

“The Duke of Surrey has died, two days past.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this idea would not leave me alone, so I've just spit this concoction out. If it's remotely interesting to you, I'll continue it, because, historical porn, yes? But, if not, this plot bunny is welcome to meet its maker here.


End file.
